


Then They Went to the Valley Below

by Enisy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Blackmail, Cults, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Play, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27947300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enisy/pseuds/Enisy
Summary: A journalist walks into a cult. Joke’s on him, really.(“So you say you don’t buy your own bullshit.” - “I say I’m not selling.”Curiosity leads to fascination leads to attraction leads to unsolicited, ritualistic public sex.)
Relationships: Charismatic Cult Leader/Male Follower Who Doesn't Believe in Cults, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 14
Kudos: 91
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	Then They Went to the Valley Below

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bleustocking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleustocking/gifts).



i.

 _Tall, dark_ _&_ _handsome_ , Neil wrote in cursive unreadable to anyone but himself.

There was a question mark next to the ‘handsome.’ The man’s features were too strange, perhaps, to earn that appellative: his cheekbones jutted out – his jawbones, too – and his hair was graying even though he was only thirty-four.

 _Extravagant hand gestures_ , Neil added, as he watched the Leader work the crowd. _Compulsive hugger._ _Green e_ _arrings_ _&_ _robes_ _,_ _but_ _more_ _youth pastor_ _than hippie._

The Leader – Brahm – had been studying him, too. By the time he made his way over, he already had a question locked and loaded. “Do all journalists come in Ronan Farrow-shaped packages these days?”

His face was framed by a tacky arc in the background, white and glazed like something out of _Xena_. Tacky flower beds, tacky statues, tacky benches, tacky topiary: Brahm was just about the only authentic thing in this garden. His grin and the tilt of his head gave rise to one last note – _C h a r m_ _i_ _n g_ – before Neil put the notepad away.

“Well?”

“Do all journalists…” It took Neil a few seconds to process the joke: his interviewees rarely made bold to banter with him. And when they did, they were never so _familiar_. “Err,” he said. “Only the very good ones. We’re vat-grown.”

“How enticing.” Brahm laughed. “I should import one of those vats for the convent. Aesthetic pleasure is very important to us.”

The sweep of his arm seemed to imply _aesthetic pleasure_ was already within reach. Despite the silly Grecian style, Neil thought there was actually merit to that claim. Located in one of the busiest, noisiest, most dismal communes in Antwerp, the convent with its sprawling garden and woodland creatures felt like an oasis of sorts. It reminded him of Central Park in New York City, where he owned an apartment. Here, too, there were certain angles where the houses made themselves scarce, and you could forget you were in a city. Squirrels flitted up and down the trees, and the air crackled with the hummingbirds’ activity.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” said Brahm. He must have caught him staring. “But you have to space apart the feeders, or you will have one single, fat hummingbird forever zipping back and forth between them. They are extremely territorial.”

Neil paused. That last sentence seemed to be strewn with tacks and nails.

“Good to know,” he said carefully. “I, um… I hope you won’t take umbrage if we get down to the purpose of my visit.”

“Not at all.”

Neil fiddled with his pen, spattering ink over his palm. Brahm’s warm brown stare was making him uncomfortable. It looked unreal, as though it had been painted by a second-rate artist – one with too little subtlety and too much respect for History’s Great Men.

“To start with, I have some questions about this estate. Is it true you inherited it three years ago?”

“That is true as holy writ, Neil. I’m sorry – I mean, Mr. Ortiz.”

_They are extremely territorial._

After a pregnant pause, and against his better judgment, he responded: “Neil is fine.”

ii.

For the purposes of this reportage, he had booked a hotel for three days. Already on the second day, Brahm assured him that he could stay at the convent’s dormitory: his own sister was traveling to India, so there was a free bed, and he was their dear, esteemed guest.

Three days became a week.

He was only doing it for the scoop, of course: a hasty weekend audience with the Leader was no substitute for a truly immersive experience featuring the entire cult.

A week became a month.

(What was he looking for?)

A month and a half.

Two months.

iii.

The cult known as the Chain was the magnum opus of one Oliver H. Bramstock – now going by the catchier _Brahm_ – after a series of failed endeavors. The Table. The Drawer. The Hearth. He must have stopped short of the Bath Mat.

That series of wet squibs had left him undeterred, and eventually he had hit pay dirt. The Chain was the real deal, with the most impassioned followers, known as the Links. The cult recycled a lot of the usual religious tropes – meditation, sacred geometry, chakras, reincarnation – but the packaging was bolder, sexier. Because Brahm would actually tell you which _individual_ you were in a past life. It was the BuzzFeed of modern religions.

“So, who am I?” asked Neil. Blithe, yes, and airy. But also curious.

Brahm joined their hands, lacing their fingers together, and made a big show of humming and clicking his tongue. Then he said, “Kobayashi Issa.”

Neil had an out-of-body experience in which he saw himself go pale. He’d pored over Kobayashi’s poems back when he was learning Japanese, could have recited at least eight of them from memory. Even now, one of his haikus graced the back cover of his notepad: _This dewdrop world –_ _i_ _s a dewdrop world,_ _a_ _nd yet, and yet..._ It brought him some measure of comfort when his best friend died last year, sending him on a spiral, hollowing out his private life almost completely.

Who could have told Brahm about this? How had he known?

Or was that the reason for his success – an ability to find the gaping holes in people, and pave them over with material of his choosing?

“Don’t look so alarmed,” said Brahm, laughing. It was a sharp, cruel laughter. It felt more like an _at_ than a _with_. “May I speak to you? Off the record?”

“Yes.”

“It’s like a tarot reading,” he said. “The Chain doesn’t mean anything by itself. You find your own meaning in it. And the best part is, you don’t even need to _believe_ in it. Don’t make that face! Just listen! Some people have unconditional faith in the Chain, but you and I, Neil, well, we only need to believe in it insofar as we believe in our therapist. We’ll get something out of it, either way.”

“So you say you don’t buy your own bullshit,” said Neil.

Snottily: “I say I’m not selling.”

iv.

The pair of them hung out a fair bit, after that. Neil talked to Brahm about his work, and his lapsed Catholicism, and his samurai sword collection. He also helped Brahm set up another feeder for the hummingbirds, using a DIY kit he bought from the local pet store. It felt good to work with his hands, to trace a straight line from his scratched knuckles to the well-fed, happy hummingbirds.

v.

“And you really don’t want to join?”

“For the umpteenth time…”

“What can I do to convince you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Leak that photo of me failing to eat a mango? I know you have cameras installed in the gazebo.”

“Neil, if you believe _that’s_ the most embarrassing photo in my possession, you have another think coming.”

“Heh,” Neil said uncomfortably.

Then again, he _had_ wanted an immersive experience, hadn’t he? What could be more immersive than actually joining the cult? He could expose it all: the tawdry sex rituals and the pay-to-play gimmicks, the promises of new meditation techniques, the unpaid labor, the grifting.

What could be more –

vi.

Once, when Brahm was holding forth outside the temple for a _Slayer_ concert’s worth of followers, a huge flock of birds passed overhead. Bigger than Neil had ever seen in his life: the sky turned dark with beaks and feathers.

Some of the Links prostated themselves, turning their body into a supplication. Others gasped or cried out. A few began to pray.

Neil stared at the birds for a long time, waiting until the last of them vanished from sight. Then he turned toward Brahm. The man had not paused in his speech, nor made any reference to the omen – as if it were only natural his sermons should call forth biblical swarms. He met Neil’s gaze placidly, where he was standing in the front row. Met it in a crowd of _thousands_ , and his eyes were soft and mysterious and almost black with desire.

Neil felt like a demigod. Like he’d been bitten by something potent, something radioactive.

vii.

“It’s… similar to a tarot reading, you said?”

They were sitting on a bench in the garden, which, to Neil’s chagrin, looked less tacky with every passing day. He melted slightly at the smell of ozone – it was going to rain soon – and at the blue butterfly that landed on his lap, and the sunlight playing on the nearest statue. It was an eight-foot-high conch made of stone and steel, with little children crawling in and out of its hole.

Brahm smiled at him. “It’s _e_ _xactly_ like a tarot reading.”

A small girl pitched out of the conch and ran up to their bench. She placed both hands on Neil’s knee and used it as a launchpad for her next charge, giggling all the while.

Neil hummed in contemplation.

“Well,” he said, “what’s the harm in that?”

viii.

When his rite of passage finally came, it was nothing like he’d expected.

Neil knew something was wrong as soon as he saw the number of people gathered in the cloister. He’d seen some of Brahm’s rituals before, and they involved a wordy chant, two slashed palms and a set of bagpipes. They weren’t exactly crowd pleasers. Why would so many followers turn up for _his_ initiation?

Dismay crawled up his throat. The signature sound of dismay was, apparently, _gr_ _ngh_. He had been rather hoping for a quiet affair. After all, he had ulterior motives for going through with this.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

His words shook Brahm loose from the column he’d been leaning on. In this subdued, twilight atmosphere, he was like a disco ball, glowing with happiness.

“Everyone came to see you.”

“To see me?” he parroted. “Why?” His mind was racing, trying to make sense of the situation. By now, the crowd had formed a barrier around them, a wall papered over with greedy, glowing eyes. “Because I am… what… secular?”

The taut membrane that had stretched between them over the past few months finally snapped. Neil could smell blood in the air. With innate ease, Brahm stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. Then he cupped his cheek. _Oh_. That part was new. “Because they know how much I love you.”

“You – _what_? Hey!”

It was your regular off-the-shelf, benevolent-cult-leader BS, but he hadn’t expected it from Brahm. Alarmed, Neil tried to slip through the throng of followers, but two of them shoved him forward again. A sudden chill permeated his body. His tongue felt several sizes too big for his mouth, but he forced it to move.

“Brahm,” he said, “what are you doing? I told you I’m ready – I’ll go all the way – with the knife and the bagpipes and –”

Brahm cut him off. “That ritual is meant for newcomers,” he said. “You and I know each other quite well by now, don’t we? I think some more pomp and circumstance is in order.”

Neil was frozen on the spot. No one in the crowd seemed to be moving, either: even their eyes were transfixed, like they were in the Louvre or something, arranged around the Dying Slave or the Venus de Milo. He wondered what they were thinking. Maybe they wanted to see him brought low – the outsider who was poking his nose where it didn’t belong – or maybe they were just following Brahm’s lead.

Speaking of whom… “My darling,” he cooed, and his hand found Neil’s cheek again. “You look so disappointed. You were hoping for a big scoop, weren’t you?” A stroke of the thumb. Right and left. Circles. Then the hand retreated, only to come down again, _hard_ , in a sudden slap. Neil gasped. “I don’t think your job will exert the same hold on you after today.”

With growing horror, Neil realized that one of the followers – a tall woman with fishlike eyes and a pout to match – was holding a video camera. And it was pointed right at them. Upon seeing that, he made a mad dash for the crowd again, screaming and biting and kicking when they grabbed him... and later, sagging helplessly when they restrained his arms. When they shoved him to the ground.

Brahm was still smiling. “I haven’t seen you from this angle before,” he said. “How lovely. I look forward to many happy returns.”

Despite everything, Neil could still muster some surprise for the half-erect penis that was suddenly shoved into his face.

“What the hell,” he growled. “You’re _sick_ ,” and made to pull away.

Without missing a beat, the man clapped a hand over his chin and squeezed his cheeks, forcing his mouth open. “Fuck. Fuck yeah. There we go,” he said, once he’d slotted his length into Neil’s mouth. “Good boy. We both know you’re not camera-shy.”

Neil clenched his fists, still unable to comprehend this was happening to him. He gulped desperately around the foreign object, while a perverse arousal bled through him slowly, in a jagged line from his tongue to his testicles. It was only instinct, it was only natural – popping a boner at a naked body – but it mortified him all the same. He could feel the cock fatten in his mouth with every quick, shallow thrust that Brahm made. His jaw ached with the effort of keeping it all inside. At some point, it occurred to him that the arms holding him down had receded: the only thing keeping him there was his own will, or lack thereof. Neil swallowed once, twice, and squeezed his eyes against the dirty sounds. Maybe his ears would get the message and follow suit.

Brahm wasn’t letting him off the hook. “Fuck, Neil – the _sounds_ you make,” he gasped. “I think I’ll make you listen to the recording with me later. Aw, what’s that face? Are you embarrassed? _Please_. You’ve been angling for this practically since the moment you stepped foot in the convent. You _wanted_ my attention – well, now you have it.” He cradled Neil’s cheek, then handed down another slap – but lighter this time, as if to check he had his attention. “Fuck,” he repeated. “Here it comes, baby. Take it. _Take it_.”

Tears beaded at the corners of Neil’s eyes, and he huffed through his nose, but he managed to swallow most of the discharge. _Gulp._ _Gulp._ _Sigh._ The softened cock in his mouth gave him an absurd sense of accomplishment. Brahm was panting: in the aftermath, the expression on his face was almost tender. He swiped an appreciative thumb over Neil’s mouth, and pushed what spit and semen had escaped back onto his tongue. Neil whimpered.

It was over: there was no life for him outside the Chain now. This blackmail material could unilaterally sink anyone’s career. And yet – _Chain_. _Link_. The words didn’t terrify him quite as much as they should. He licked his lips, which must have been raw and red and provocative, because Brahm lunged forward for a kiss. He slid his tongue into Neil’s mouth, as if to give him a preview of what was to happen down below.

Perhaps it had been a while for Brahm, or perhaps he’d taken something before they began, because he was sporting a new erection within the minute.

“Oh God,” Neil moaned.

“No such animal,” said Brahm, methodically removing Neil's clothes. He slicked his fingers with something and, without further delay, dug deep between Neil’s legs. Neil flinched and arched his back, belly-deep groans quickly devolving into sobs. It _hurt_.

“Don’t cry,” Brahm murmured. “Shh, baby. Just let it happen. It’ll be over soon.”

The words didn’t quite register, but the tone calmed him down. As Brahm shoved into him, his body seemed to accept it – hips bucking up, knees falling open – even as some part of him recoiled at the display. _There_ _i_ _s no need_ crossed sabers with _There is no choice._

Catching on to this inner turmoil, Brahm bit his jaw. Then, more softly, his ear. “You’ll be good for me from now on,” he whispered, “won’t you?”

His hand curled around Neil’s shaft and pumped him slowly, with superlative care. It was like static electricity: his toes curled. And as much as he whined and thrashed, there was no escaping the sensations. With a flourish – like the tug of the ribbon that unwraps the birthday gift – stroke number 14 had him coming. And coming. And _coming_ , warm and translucent, on the ground and all over his partner’s fingers. Someone chuckled – maybe Brahm, maybe one of the onlookers. Uncaring, Neil slumped in the other man’s arms, tension whooshing out of him with a sigh. He was tired to his bones. Sated to his marrow.

“You did so well,” said Brahm, kissing his temple. “I love you so much.”

Neil shivered. There was a telltale trail of drool at the side of his mouth, and he felt and probably _looked_ drunk, dazed, three worlds away. But at the same time, he could not have been more present.

ix.

A few days later, fitted out with new earrings and robes, Neil found himself strolling through the garden. Even on dim, cloudy days such as this, the convent had a self-confident air about it – as if it were a parasol that could double as an umbrella. The tomatoes they’d planted were almost ripe by now, as were the chili peppers. Stands had been set up for an upcoming bake sale: Neil drew closer to admire them, giving the cloister a wide berth. _Too soon._ On one of the lower branches of an elm, he spotted the bird feeder he’d assembled with Brahm’s help. A male hummingbird seemed to have taken possession of this feeder and the next one over. Hmm. He must have placed them too close to each other.

“Neil, babe,” Brahm’s familiar voice called out to him. “The Hawthorn News guy is here for your one-on-one.”

With one last glance at that tiny, blue-green afterthought of a bird, Neil answered, “Be right there.” He tugged at his sleeve self-consciously. After the interview, he should remind Brahm to requisition new robes. This cut didn’t look so good on camera.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [enisywrites](https://enisywrites.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come on over if you want to drop me a prompt or a question, or if you just want to say hi!


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